


A Church and a Circle of Chairs

by onlythefinest



Series: Whichever Lines Challenge [3]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe, Gen, whichever lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlythefinest/pseuds/onlythefinest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nixon is someplace he doesn't want to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Church and a Circle of Chairs

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my Whichever Lines Challenge. This particular line is from a generator online.

 

∙♠∙♠∙♠∙♠∙

_This wasn't where he wanted to be._

∙♠∙♠∙♠∙♠∙

Nix blew out a long breath and pushed his sunglasses into his hair, stared up at the nondescript church like it had wronged him. He’d been staring up at the brick façade for the better part of the last fifteen minutes, and finally he mounted the few steps to the door and pulled on the brass handle.

The inside was just as plain as the out, white walled with intermittent sconces providing ambient light alongside the natural sun that filtered through the blinds on the windows. A long low desk was set against the far wall, and behind it sat a woman, her brown hair pulled into a dirty bun at the base of her neck. She wore thick black-rimmed glasses that magnified her seawater eyes, and when she glanced up at Nix she wiped her nose with a Kleenex. “Hello,” she said, sniffed and shoved the Kleenex into her sleeve. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I’m here for the, uh.” Nix frowned. “The meeting?”

“Oh.” The woman nodded, sniffed again as she pushed a clipboard to the edge of the desk. “If you’re doing this as part of your probation, I’ll need you to sign in so your PO knows—“

“No, no,” Nixon said, put his hands up. “I’m just…here.” The woman blinked, slid the clipboard back to her and nodded. She wiped her nose again.

“Alright,” she said. “It’s the last door on your right.”

He thanked her and headed down the long hallway. The last door on his right was a small room with no windows and a circle of chairs looped in the center. About half of the chairs were occupied and he moved to one away from everyone else, set his hands in his lap and glanced around. An older gentleman with thick grey hair looked around the group and counted, checked the number with what he had on his clipboard. He checked his watch next, cleared his throat to grab everyone’s attention. “Let’s get started,” he said, standing. “My name is Gary, for all those new faces I see. I’m happy to have you here.”

“Hi, Gary,” the group said. Nixon muttered the greeting.

“I’d like to explain how I got here,” Gary said, smiling, and Nixon had to withhold his groan. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to sit and listen to a dozen people go on about their lives for three hours. And the chairs were damned uncomfortable. He was too busy thinking about how sore his back was going to be that he missed the first half of what Gary had been saying.

“—and that’s when I became a counselor,” he finished as Nix focused again. He clapped with the rest of the group and Gary swept his hand to his left, for the black man there to start and introduce himself.

Jules was a recovering heroin addict. He’d started smoking pot when he was fourteen and living in South Chicago, and when he was sixteen he graduated from pot to meth. “But I liked my face too much to stick with that,” he said, which had a few people laughing along with him. So from meth he found heroin, and had been hooked until six months ago, when he’d wound up on an emergency room gurney after he’d crashed his car into the side of a building when he drove after shooting up. “I’m just glad I didn’t hurt nobody,” he said. But after that night he realized he could have died, and if he kept going he would. So he decided to straighten up. Hadn’t had a relapse in all those six months.

Next was Helen. Helen was an alcoholic, and Nix couldn’t help but think of her as a kindred spirit. She was thirty-five, older than Nixon by about seven years, and had gone through three marriages and three divorces, one custody battle, had lost four homes to foreclosure and had lived in missions and on the streets for the better half of the last five years. She’d been dry for three months now, when her ex-husband fought a court battle to get full custody and her no visitation and had won. She couldn’t see her two ten-year olds until she straightened up and got her life back together. “After everything else that happened,” she told the group, “it was the thought of not seeing Frankie and Penny again that made me climb outta the bottle. I can’t bear the thought of not being able to see them.” She was going to meet with her attorney next month to arrange another court date for her to get visitation back.

Waylon was another drug addict, cocaine this time, and had only been coming to meetings for two weeks as part of his probation. He didn’t share a lot, only that the cops had taken his dog away and it was in a foster home until he could stay sober and remember to feed it.

Prior was a heroin addict like Jules, but he had only been clean a month and Nix doubted he was going to stay that way. He knew the look of an addict about to give in—he’d seen it in the mirror often enough, usually when he had a drink in his hand.

Molly was twenty-two, an opium addict and a prostitute. She said she was HIV positive and was trying to atone for everything she’d done in life before the end, so she was going through recovery and was planning on joining a convent when she was clean.

The quiet applause died down and it was Nixon’s turn. He reluctantly stood. “I’m Lewis,” he said, and the collective greeted him with, “Hi, Lewis” and they were all expectant faces and a few smiles. “And I’m an alcoholic.” He clapped his hands together in front of him, laced his fingers, unlaced them and tucked them into the pockets of his jeans. “This is my first time here, so I’m a little—“ He shrugged a bit. “—y’know.”

“That’s alright,” Gary said, smiling. “Take your time. You don’t have to share tonight if you don’t feel comfortable.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Nix said, took his hands out of his pockets and just let them hang at his sides. He sighed, scratched the back of his head. “I, uh. I’m trying to change for someone. I mean I’m trying to stop going through a bottle every couple days.” He took a deep breath, felt like he was performing a speech for his graduating class. “And I like to think if I can manage that he’ll come back.”

Everyone was quiet as Nix pressed his lips together, stood silently in front of his chair. Gary wrapped his fingers around the edge of his clipboard. “Do you want to share with the group what happened?” he asked, and Nix looked up at him, gave a dry laugh and shook his head.

“It seems a bit dull in comparison to what everyone else has been through,” he said, and Gary smiled a little.

“It’s not dull to you,” he said. Nix pressed his lips together again and frowned. “You can share—if you’d like. It may help you feel better.”

“Yeah,” Nix said. “Maybe.” He took another deep breath, let it out with puffed cheeks. Then he began. 


End file.
